User blog:Squibstress/Till A' the Seas Gang Dry - Chapter 2
Title: Till 'A the Seas Gang Dry Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Warnings: Explicit sexual content Genre: Romance,Erotica,Travel Published: 17/06/01 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. 2. Paris: On the Orient Express “Vos passeports, s'il vous plaît?” Albus handed the Muggle documents to the agent, who glanced up briefly at each of their faces before waving them through. As they passed through the Calais ferry terminus, Minerva leant in to whisper to Albus, “I'm awfully glad he didn't ask us anything. I forgot to check what names you put on the passports.” Albus whispered back, “For the duration of our trip, we are Albert and Victoria White, Mr and Mrs.” “Oh, you never …” “Look at your passport, my dear.” She took a quick glance, snapped the passport shut, and put it in her handbag. “You know, Albu— Albert, I think it's a very good job you didn't end up with the Aurors. You'd make a dreadful spy.” “You mean the MI-6.” “Hmm?” “The Muggle spies. Although Her Majesty's government wouldn't admit to it.” “Well, whatever the Muggles call them, you wouldn't get in.” “Lots of people are called Victoria and Albert.” Minerva shook her head. “At least I shan't have any difficulty remembering it.” “We have a few hours before our train departs. What would you say to a bit of lunch in Paris, Mrs White?” They found a quiet spot from which to Apparate, and Albus took them to a tiny alleyway in what turned out to be Les Halles. They came out into a street opposite Saint-Eustache and walked along the edge of the bustling marketplace until they arrived at the restaurant Albus had selected. “You enjoy pork, don't you?” he asked as he took hold of one of the brass pig's trotters that served as the knobs and pulled the door open for Minerva. After their meal—onion soup gratinée and grilled pig's trotter with chips, followed by the best chocolate mousse she'd ever had—Minerva declared herself full to bursting and suggested a walk before heading to the train station. They retraced the route they'd followed earlier, making a detour into the marketplace and stopping at various stalls. It was less crowded than before, and many vendors had packed up their wares, but the air was still thick with the pungent odours of spices and fish. Albus had a conversation with one fishmonger, who seemed delighted to explain to him the differences between the pied de cheval and the huître spéciale d'Isygny and allowed them to sample several of his briny delights right from the shell. Coming out of the marketplace, they wandered into Saint-Eustache. Minerva had never been in it before, and they strolled around, looking at the stained glass and Rubens's “The Pilgrims of Emmaüs”. They stopped to admire the church's enormous organ, and to Albus's delight, the young man who had been lovingly wiping the ivory keys with a cloth turned out to be the organist. Albus exchanged a few words with him, and the organist sat down and began to play short passages from what Minerva thought might be Bach. The sound was magnificent, deep and resonant; Minerva could feel it in her body, and it gave her the shivers. When the organist finished, he handed Albus a bill advertising a concert of Bach's Passacaglia and Fugue in C minor to be held that evening at the church. Albus handed it back with a rueful smile, saying, “Désolé, monsieur, main nous partons ce soir.” “Domage. Au retour, alors,” said the man. “Sans faute,” said Albus. When they came out, the sun was hanging low in the sky, and there was a light rain falling, so Minerva surreptitiously conjured an umbrella for them as Albus attempted to hail a taxi for the trip to the train station so they would appear to be as any Muggles arriving for a voyage. When they arrived at the Gare de l'Est, the driver was confused when Albus asked him to open the boot. “Nos baggages,” Albus explained. The driver remonstrated, but Albus just shrugged and said, “Veuillez ouvrir le coffre, monsieur.” The man got out and went around to the back of the taxi, muttering under his breath. Minerva raised her eyebrows when the very surprised driver withdrew two battered-looking suitcases from the taxi's boot. Albus paid him, and from the change in the driver's expression, Minerva suspected he had added a generous gratuity to make up for the “misunderstanding” about the bags. After the taxi had pulled away, Albus leant down and said in her ear, “It would look odd if we were to board the overnight train with only our small bags, so I did a little conjuring as we were getting into the taxi.” He picked up the decoy bags, and they made their way to the platform, where crisply uniformed porters in duckbilled caps were wheeling trolleys piled with suitcases and trunks to the luggage car. A porter helped them aboard with their bags and showed them to their compartment. A few minutes later, they heard the whistle sound, and the train began to chug slowly out of the station. Minerva watched the lights of Paris go by, faster and faster, until they had got out of the city and into the surrounding countryside, which passed by in an amber blur that faded to black as the sun slipped down beyond the horizon. A steward knocked on the compartment door and slid it open, requesting their passports. When Albus surrendered them, the steward flipped one open and looked at it quickly, then switched from French to lightly accented English. “With your permission, Mr White, I will hold these overnight. This way, you will not be disturbed at the border crossings. They will be returned before we arrive in Venice. I assure you that they will be quite safe.” “I'm certain of it,” said Albus. “Thank you.” “Would sir and madam care for some tea?” “That would be very nice, thank you,” said Minerva. The young man returned shortly with some good Ceylon and a plate of small cakes. “This is lovely,” Minerva said, as Albus nibbled on a pastry. “I hardly expected such luxury.” She refrained from mentioning what it must have cost, but she thought it must have been quite dear to book a private sleeper compartment. “We'll only have one honeymoon,” he said. “I didn't even expect one, so this is truly a wonderful treat. Thank you.” “Yes, it was fortuitous that we had to wait until Christmas to be married. Otherwise, we mightn't have managed to get away until the summer holidays.” “Filius didn't mind staying over?” “No. He had no plans, he said.” “No family to visit?” “Filius is a widower,” said Albus. “And his sister died back in the 'thirties, I think. He has a couple of nephews, but they aren't especially close.” “Oh,” said Minerva. She'd never enquired about Filius's family situation, but now she was curious. “He was married, then?” “Yes. I never met his wife. She and their daughter died of dragon pox before he came to Oxford.” “How terrible!” “Yes, it was. He doesn't speak of them much, but from what little he's said, I think he blames himself. They'd been in Eastern Europe, where he was doing research, and got caught in the epidemic.” Minerva felt a wave of crushing sadness for the calm, kind man she'd got to know and like over the past year. “I'd never have guessed. He always seems so cheerful.” “Yes, well … despite everything, he's a happy soul, basically, I think. And quite resilient. He's had to be.” She couldn't resist asking, “Is it true that he has Goblin blood?” “Oh, yes. His grandmother was a Goblin. His grandfather never married her, of course. He couldn't, with the laws as they are. So his father was considered illegitimate, and, as Filius tells it, was nearly barred from attending Hogwarts.” “Awfully unfair.” “Isn't it?” “You knew him at school, didn't you?” “Yes. He was three years behind me, but we struck up a friendship.” That didn't surprise Minerva in the least. Filius Flitwick was one of the brightest people she knew, and she could only imagine that young Albus would have gravitated to one of his few fellow students who could keep up with him intellectually. Albus said, “We met up again at Oxford in the 'twenties. He was doing some advanced Charms research with Master Gamp when Griselda and I were starting up the Transfiguration lab.” “That must have been a very exciting time.” Minerva could only imagine how it must have been to be at Mallory College then, with Griselda Marchbanks and Albus Dumbledore spurring one another to greater and greater discoveries. Merlin knew she'd heard enough stories from Griselda during her own studies at Oxford. “Indeed,” said Albus. “I was most fortunate. As you know, Griselda is—aside from being a brilliant scholar—something of a character.” Yes, thought Minerva, that's one way to put it. Albus seemed to know what she was thinking. “I understand she became somewhat … rigid … later on.” “A bit,” said Minerva. “She was good to me, but it did get a little frustrating.” “Ah, well,” said Albus, taking her hand. “I look at it as a lucky thing. Had you been completely happy at Oxford, you might never have come to Hogwarts, and I would still be pining hopelessly away for you.” “Oh, do stop. You never pined.” “I did,” he said. “It thought of you all the time. Every day.” “Did you?” she asked, her throat suddenly tight. “Yes. I tried not to, but I wasn't successful.” “Do you think it was providence?” she asked. She didn't believe in fate, not exactly, but she couldn't help feeling that somehow she and Albus were meant to be together. She'd told herself often enough that it was foolish, but she wanted to know if he felt the same way. “Something like that,” he said. “But whatever it was, providence or accident, I am deeply grateful for it.” He put his arm around her shoulder, and she kissed him. They broke apart at the sound of the compartment door sliding open. The steward informed them that dinner would begin seating in the dining car at seven-thirty and that he would prepare their compartment for the night while they were away. “If sir and madam would care to leave their breakfast orders on the table, I will ensure it is served promptly tomorrow at eight,” he said, leaving two menu cards for them to fill out. When he'd left, Minerva said, “Breakfast in our private compartment? How posh!” “It is rather nice, isn't it?” said Albus. “I must admit, the prospect of a breakfast not surrounded by hundreds of people is quite appealing.” “It must be. But you could stay for breakfast at the cottage on Mondays,” she reminded him. “I wouldn't mind getting up an hour earlier.” “I know, my dear. It isn't that I don't want to stay all night with you. But I feel that as Headmaster, I should make an effort to be at as many meals as possible.” “I understand,” she said, smiling reassuringly at him. “It would be lovely to have you at the castle.” “What pretext could you possibly use?” “I don't know. I shall have to come up with one. Unless you want to tell the governors about our marriage now.” “Oh, let's think about that some other time,” she said. She dreaded the uproar—small though it would likely be—that would ensue should the divided Board of Governors get wind of her relationship with Albus. Although there was no rule prohibiting relationships between staff—or so Albus had said—the fact that she'd only been hired a year ago and was so much younger than he was would doubtless give the governors who disliked Albus ammunition to use against him. They would accuse him of ulterior motives in hiring her, no doubt, and a few would probably cast aspersions on her own character. She didn't think he had enough enemies in the group to get the sack, but anything was possible. And if the issue became public, there would doubtless be a story or two in the Daily Prophet, an idea that made her ill whenever she thought about it. Among other things she preferred not to think about was the chance that Tom Riddle would turn up again, like the proverbial bad penny, and spread the tale of her earlier affair with Albus, which would be believed in light of their current relationship. That would almost certainly cause a very public scandal, even if it couldn't be proven, and she didn't want to imagine how her father might react. He had taken her marriage to a man only two years his junior apparently in stride, but Minerva didn't think his equanimity would extend to knowing that Albus had been her lover when she was eighteen and still in school. “You look pensive,” Albus said. “I didn't mean to upset you.” “No, you didn't. I'd just rather not think about anything practical right now. I'm too happy.” “I'm very glad.” They perused the breakfast cards and made their selections. “We need to get changed for dinner,” said Minerva. “Although I'm not sure how we'll manage it in this small space,” she said, looking around. “I'll just sit here while you change, then I'll take my turn,” he said. Minerva withdrew a small box from her handbag, then Summoned her wand from its hidden pocket inside her Muggle suit jacket and used it to return her trunk to its normal size. She barely had room to open it but eventually managed to withdraw her evening dress and shoes. After removing a pair of onyx hair combs from a small drawer in the trunk, she re-Shrunk it and put it back in her handbag. She felt Albus's eyes on her as she removed her blouse, so she turned away from him with a smile, saying, “A gentleman would avert his eyes while a lady is dressing.” “The gentleman in question is simply appreciating his wife's charms.” “Well, you can appreciate them more later. We don't want to be late for dinner. It's the last seating.” He cleared his throat and stood, saying, “Perhaps I should avail myself of the water closet while you get dressed.” He went to the door and opened it just enough to stick his head out. “All clear,” he said and opened it enough to slip out. When he returned, she was dressed, and it gratified her to see his smile when he saw her. “You look lovely, my dear,” he said. “A new dress?” “Yes. When you suggested the trip, I thought I'd get a few Muggle things. Amelia knows a good shop in Dovehouse Street. I thought I'd just Transfigure anything else I might need, but I didn't think I could do justice to a smart suit or an evening dress, so I got them there.” “Beautiful,” said Albus. “I don't think I've seen you in that colour before. It suits you.” “Thank you.” She was afraid she'd sound terribly sentimental and foolish if she told him she'd selected that particular shade of blue because it reminded her of his eyes, so she didn't. He put his hands on her waist and drew her closer, planting soft kisses on each bare shoulder. “I shall have a hard time keeping myself from doing this during dinner. Your shoulders are very, very enticing.” “Fortunately, the table will be between us, so you shan't have the opportunity.” “I will just content myself with looking at you, then.” As he turned, he added, “For now.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small zippered pouch, from which he took a tiny scrap of cloth and what looked very much like two blackcurrants. He used his wand to enlarge them into a tuxedo and shirt, and the currants turned out to be a pair of black patent-leather shoes. “I should have thought of that,” said Minerva. “It would have made much more sense to put my things into a small bag instead of the trunk.” “My years roaming the Continent taught me to travel very light,” Albus said. “Although I expect that's more difficult for a witch. Shrinking gowns and the like is a trickier business, and you have so many things to keep track of.” “Yes, the trunk does help keep things organised,” said Minerva. She used the tiny mirror over the fold-out sink to fix her hair while he changed. When she finished, he was struggling with his bow tie. “Ah,” he said, giving up in frustration. “Would you mind, my dear? I never have quite got the hang of this.” She took up her wand and thought for a second, then pointed it at the tie, saying, “Ligate!” Stepping back to look at him, she said, “That doesn't look right. I'm afraid I've never done a Muggle tie before. Let me have another go.” It took three tries before she was satisfied. Albus looked in the small mirror and declared the effort “A for Acceptable”. The long walk to the dining car whetted Minerva's appetite, and she was delighted to find moules marinière on the menu. She loved mussels but rarely got them at home, and the light wine broth would be perfect after the heavy lunch they had consumed. Albus ordered a fillet of pickled beef, so they compromised on the wine, selecting a light Bourgueil that would clash with neither dish. As they waited for their meal, they chatted with a middle-aged couple seated at the next table. When the man, who introduced himself as “Drummond, Drum for short,” mentioned that they were American, Minerva said, “I spent a few months in America several years ago. I found it quite enchanting.” “Really? Where?” asked Drum. “Outside Boston.” “For business or pleasure?” “Both, I suppose. I was teaching and doing a bit of research.” “Let me guess,” said Drum. “Radcliffe?” “Er …” “Drum was a Harvard man,” said Drum's wife, who was called Mary. Drum chuckled. “Long before your time, of course,” he said to Minerva. “So, was I correct? Are you a Radcliffe girl?” “No,” said Minerva, getting a bit nervous. She couldn't very well tell them she'd been at the Salem Witches' Institute, but she knew very little about Radcliffe, and certainly not enough to lie convincingly to someone who knew his way around Cambridge and its colleges. “Wellesley, then? I hear it's lovely. Never been there, myself,” Drum said. Minerva relaxed a little. “Yes. But I was only there for one term.” “What was your subject?” asked Mary. “Biology,” Minerva said. Thanks to her advanced studies in cellular and molecular Transfiguration, she could hold her own in almost any discussion of mammalian biology, magical or Muggle. “Goodness!” said Mary. “I'm afraid science quite escapes me. I only did a year of it at Vassar. Art History was my subject.” “Oh?” said Albus. “How interesting! Italy is certainly a good place to see art.” “Yes,” said Drum. “Mary's been wanting to go for ages now, so we decided to make a tour of it: Paris, Venice, and Florence.” “Drum surprised me,” said Mary, beaming. “For our thirtieth wedding anniversary.” “How marvellous! Congratulations!” said Albus. “Thank you,” said Drum. Mary said, “And now I'm going to be nosy and ask you, what brings you to Italy?” Minerva suspected that she'd been trying to work out whether Albus and Minerva were a couple, or perhaps father and daughter travelling together. “We're on our honeymoon,” she said. “Really?” said Mary, obviously delighted to have her answer at last. “Congratulations!” “Yes, congratulations,” said Drum, reaching across the table to pump Albus's hand. “I hope you'll be as happy as we've been.” “Thank you,” said Albus. “If you don't mind my saying so, you're a very lucky man.” “Yes, I am. Victoria is as brilliant as she is beautiful.” Mary asked Minerva, “So, are you a teacher?” “I am. So is Albert, actually.” “How nice! Do you work at the same school?” “Yes,” said Albus, “at a small secondary school in Scotland. Victoria teaches science, and I am fortunate enough to be Headmaster.” “And that's how you met, am I right?” asked Drum. “Yes,” said Albus. “I taught art to the fifth grade for a year,” said Mary. “That is, until I married Drum. Do you plan to keep working, Victoria?” “Yes, I do.” “That'll change when the babies start to come,” said Drum with a wink at Albus. The heat rose in Minerva's face, and she had to stop herself from saying something rude at the man's presumption. With a glance at her, Albus said, “Oh, I don't think so. Victoria is quite gifted and committed to her work.” “I think that's wonderful,” said Mary “You should be able to have a career and a family.” To her husband, she said, “Girls sometimes do that now, Drum.” “I don't hold with it, if you don't mind my saying so,” said Drum. Minerva minded very much but took a sip of wine to prevent herself from telling the man exactly what she thought of his opinion. Drum continued, “A woman should be with her children. We've got four, and Mary was perfectly happy at home taking care of them, weren't you, honey?” “Yes, Drum, but not everyone feels the same way,” said Mary, and Minerva had the impression she was trying to make him stop talking. But Drum chuckled and said to Albus, “Just you wait: give her a baby, and you'll be in the market for a new science teacher.” Minerva's hand twitched at her side, where she usually kept her wand, and she said, “It's lucky I brought my pessary, then.” She was gratified when Drum started choking on the martini he had just brought to his lips. She thought she caught a fleeting smile cross Mary's face as she thumped her husband on the back. Albus gave Minerva a look that plainly said he thought she'd crossed the line, but she stared back at him, raising her eyebrow, and he smiled. “Ah,” he said, “and here's our dinner.” The waiter had arrived just in time, and there was no more talk between the couples until Mary and Drum rose after dessert. “Good evening, Victoria, Albert,” said Mary. “It was a pleasure to have met you.” “Yes,” said Drum, not looking at Minerva, his eyes scanning the dining car, intent on escape. “The pleasure was ours,” said Albus, rising to kiss Mary's hand. “Oh!” she exclaimed, blushing and turning to her husband. “I just love Englishmen. So gentlemanly.” To Minerva she said, “Enjoy your honeymoon.” “Thank you. And I hope you enjoy your trip as well,” Minerva said. As the couple retreated, Albus leant across the table and said quietly, “I'm surprised at you, Minerva.” “As far as I'm concerned, that dreadful man was asking for it. He's lucky I didn't hex him.” “Perhaps, but your tongue can be just as dangerous as your wand, you know.” “Why, thank you.” When they got back to their compartment, the banquette had been converted into two narrow beds, one just above the other. “This will never do,” said Albus, removing his wand from its pocket in the interior of his jacket. He used it to enlarge the upper bunk—there was no room to make the lower any bigger—and added a few strengthening spells for good measure. “Your bed, milady,” he said, bowing. Minerva soon found that while the lurching and rocking of the train lent a titillating element of unpredictability to sex, it wasn't nearly as conducive to satisfying sleep. Albus, who seemed to have the enviable ability to sleep anytime, anywhere, had dropped off within five minutes of rolling off her, one arm thrown across her chest, his face pressed against her hair. After nearly two hours of dozing and being jerked awake by the movement of the train or the metallic whine of its wheels, Minerva transformed into her feline form and curled up in the crook of Albus's arm, hoping he wouldn't roll over in the night and crush her. Sleep came more easily to her as a cat, and within a few minutes, she was dreaming, ears still alert and twitching in the direction of each unfamiliar sound. ← Back to Chapter 1 On to Chapter 3→ Category:Chapters of Till 'A the Seas Gang Dry